


just a guy, standing in front of another guy

by theappleppielifestyle



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Notting Hill Fusion, Childhood Friends, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26665849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theappleppielifestyle/pseuds/theappleppielifestyle
Summary: “It’s not real,” Tony says, still smiling, jaw twitching with effort. “The fame. It’s - I’m just a guy."(Or, Notting Hill AU, with a twist.)
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 63
Kudos: 574





	just a guy, standing in front of another guy

When Steve tells the story later, he’s never sure where to start.

Usually he starts at age ten, when he’d first met Tony. They’d spent a couple months in the same summer program at the local library. Steve so his mother didn’t have to leave him home alone; Tony because he needed to talk to kids his own age.

Steve skims over that part. Maybe one line about how they first met, before telling them about the second time they met, fifteen years after the first.

It happened in Steve’s bookstore,  _ Brooklyn Bookslyn. _

Don’t blame him for the name. Bucky came up with it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Steve’s prepared for another lazy day of re-shelving when Natasha gets up and announces she’s going for coffee.

“Want anything new and exciting, boss,” she asks as she heads out.

Steve shakes his head. “Latte-”

“-extra shot, got it,” Natasha says.    


“Thanks.”   


Natasha flicks him a salute and leaves. The bell on the door chimes as the door opens and closes.

Steve continues re-shelving. He does it slow, since there’s not much else to do after this but read behind the counter with Natasha. He thinks vaguely of going home to grab some leftovers, since his apartment is a minute’s walk away from the store and he thinks Clint cooked something late last night, which means there’ll be some food leftover from it. 

When the bell over the door chimes, Steve is thinking about Clint’s curries, which are always coconut milk and whatever vegetables they have lying around. Clint and Steve grew up with the same attitude towards food: if it’s there, eat it. This had led to some interesting meals over the years, some less terrible than others.

“Do you need any help,” Steve calls as the door swings closed. He doesn’t look at the customer yet, he has one book left to put back.

A beat. Then a familiar voice says, “I’m okay. Hey, do you know where Classroom Eight is?”

Steve freezes. For a second he’s ten years old again going up to some rich kid who was doing a bad job at not looking nervous.

“Wow,” the voice continues, a little stunned. “I guess you do remember.”

“Of course I do,” Steve says, and turns. Tony’s grinning at him, looking like he’s walked right out of those magazines Steve checks when he’s waiting in line at the supermarket. All except his stance, which is more fidgety here than on the covers. He’s tapping a beat onto his pants pocket, a nervous tic that Steve learned early on.

“Hi,” Steve says. He steps forwards, about to hug him. But Tony’s shoulders go tight, so Steve stops.   


“Oh,” Steve says, stepping back. “Sorry, I forgot-”

Tony’s already shaking his head. “No, it’s-”

And then he steps up and hugs Steve. It’s awkward, like all hugs with Tony were. All two of them, both on the day Tony moved away.

He gives Steve two firm pats on the back, just like he did back then. Steve smiles into his shoulder. 

“You haven’t changed,” he says as he pulls back.

“Hurtful,” Tony says. “I’ve definitely gotten taller since I was 13, Rogers.”

Steve makes a considering noise, folds his arms.

Tony laughs. It’s the same surprise and delight he’d had a lot earlier on in their friendship, back when he was still learning what it was like to have a friend. Steve could relate - he’d met Bucky two years before Tony, and had gone through some of the similar steps.

“You’ve gotten meaner,” Tony says, but he’s still smiling. “No, but really - you’re looking good. Well, I mean. Healthy!”

Steve thinks about flexing his arm muscles. He’s been grateful for his health ever since it started improving at age 16, thanks to new medical treatments available on his mother’s insurance. He’s also never known quite what to do with people finding him attractive, and in the rare occasions he thinks about emphasizing his muscles to anybody he immediately chickens out. 

“Thanks,” he says, and drops his arms to his sides. “You also look healthy.”

“You know me,” Tony says. “All my clean living.”   


“When I knew you, yeah,” Steve says.

Tony bobs his head like,  _ fair _ . 

“Wouldn’t eat apple skins,” Steve continues. “‘Cause of toxins.”

“Oh god,” Tony says. “Steve, if you end up selling my torrid secrets to a magazine, please don’t mention that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve says dryly. Then, because it feels like they’ve been beating around the bush: “So, movies, huh?”

It’s not the best line, but Steve doesn’t know how else to say it. Tony’s first leading role had been in a blockbuster when he was 15, and he’s been a rising star ever since. There are posters of him on buses, looking coolly at the camera.

“Movies,” Tony agrees, and his smile is more practiced now. “Seen any?”   


Steve has seen all of them.

“You’re good in the space one,” he says.

“I  _ am  _ good in the space one,” Tony says. “Thank you.”

He’s looking around now, and Steve tries not to feel self-conscious. He’d felt the same way when Tony had come over for the first time to Steve’s tiny apartment, and Tony had been good about it.  _ Homey _ , he’d said, and at first Steve had thought he was being made fun of. But Tony had been serious. It was only later, visiting Tony’s huge, cold,  _ very  _ empty penthouse, that Steve understood how someone could like his place better.

“Nice store,” Tony says. He rubs his foot against the carpet, turns to face Steve again, but only for a second. “I’ve been meaning to come and drop by.”   


“Are you living around here?”

Tony shakes his head, still looking around. “Working. For a while, anyway.”   


“Oh,” Steve says. The conversation has suddenly got a lot more polite than it had started - less warm, more careful. “Well, drop by anytime.”

Tony nods. He still won’t meet Steve’s eyes, and Steve wonders if Tony thinks he’s made a mistake. If he does, it’s not a bad one. Just - awkward.

Steve waits. Should he offer his number? He had two landlines, one for the shop and one at home. But Tony could always call the shop if he wanted to talk to Steve, and that number is easy enough to find.

He’s opening his mouth to offer his number when Tony says, “Do you want an autograph?”

Steve blinks. Right. Movie star.

“Sure,” he says. Then, because he feels stupid: “You already signed my yearbook, though.”

“You mean that little thing they gave us at the end of the summer course? You can’t still have it.”   


Steve shrugs.   


“What, you still have it?” Tony laughs, not mean-spiritedly. “Wow. That - okay. Well, I think I’ve improved my signature skills since then.”

Steve walks back to the desk, comes back with a copy of  _ The Fellowship of the Ring  _ that he’d been reading behind the counter.   


Tony opens it to the title page.

“Nerd,” he says.

“Says you,” Steve replies. He’d been the one to introduce Tony to the series.

Tony scribbles. It ends with a flourish, and when he hands it back Steve reads: _ to Steve, my old friend. From Tony Stark, from that space movie. _

No number. Steve smiles, hoping the disappointment doesn’t show. They’d been friends for a few years as kids, of course Tony wouldn’t want to start it up again. Plus - it’s a sweet message.  _ My old friend. _

When Steve looks back up, Tony is fidgeting again. Hands in his pockets, smile the kind of tight it gets when he wants to leave.

“It was good to see you,” he says.   


“Yeah,” Steve says. “It - I really didn’t expect to see you again. This was nice.”

Tony’s mouth twitches. 

“It was,” he agrees. He gives Steve another look, like he’s searching for something. “Well. See you around, Rogers.”   


“See you, Tony.”

Tony nods. It’s jerky. He glances around at the shop, gaze wistful for a moment, the same way he’d sometimes look at Steve’s childhood apartment. Then he nods again, turns on his heel and leaves, bell jingling in his wake.

Steve stands there for a while, holding the book open on the page Tony signed. He presses his thumb over Tony’s name. What had he written in Steve’s summer yearbook? _ Your friend,  _ he thinks it was. He remembers feeling touched.

When Natasha comes in, Steve is sitting behind the counter. The book is tucked under his chair.

“One latte, extra shot,” Natasha says, handing it over.

Steve takes it. “Thanks.”

Natasha heads to the back room, where her CD player is. 

“Anything interesting happen while I was gone,” she calls as she pushes past the curtains that make up the door to the back room.

Steve thinks about telling her.

“No,” he says. “Nothing.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And nothing does happen for a while.

Steve catches one of Tony’s first movies on a rerun, sits on the couch and watches it with Clint and Bucky. At one point during the night Clint says, “So weird you  _ knew  _ him as a kid.”

“It’s a small world,” Steve says, which is what he always says when somebody brings up him knowing  _ the  _ Tony Stark. It doesn’t happen much. He doesn’t exactly broadcast it.

“It just doesn’t seem like you,” Clint continues. “Being friends with that guy.”   


“We were kids,” Steve says. “It was different.”

“He wasn’t such a Wild Child back then?”

“No,” Steve says. “And he isn’t one now, so quit it.”   


Clint’s talking about the years where every story about Tony was how he’d crashed a car or gotten his stomach pumped. Steve had kept an eye on those stories, worried but unable to do anything about it. Even if Tony’s number hadn’t been disconnected, he isn’t sure he would’ve called. It had been a long time since they had been friends.

But Tony has seemed to calm down in the past few years, and Steve is grateful. He looked well when he’d come into the bookstore, none of those dark circles and pale skin that had been present in all the paparazzi photos in those worrying years. 

It had been hard to link up the two of them - the Tony that Steve knew, who always did his homework and extra credit and never talked back to teachers, who was always so guarded, with this loud drunk guy who got papped half-naked with models and invited paparazzi into the hot tub with him.

People change, Steve figured. Still, he’d been glad to see Tony calm down. When photos show up of him nowadays, Tony’s just walking down the street or getting out of a car. He just gives a perfunctory smile and a peace sign at the camera.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


After three weeks of normal, Steve has almost convinces himself he made up the whole thing. Why would Tony come and see him anyway? It’s been almost fifteen years. A lifetime.

Then he runs straight into the guy while holding two hot cups of coffee.

He’s just down from the shop, thinking of a good book recommendation Nat had given him, when he rounds a corner and walks into Tony coffee-first. 

He doesn’t realize it’s him right away. It’s a blur of coffee splashing up over Steve’s hands and the guy’s shirt, and then Steve’s too busy hissing at the heat and saying, “Sorry, oh god-”

“Come  _ on _ ,” the guy - Tony - says. He hasn’t noticed it’s Steve yet either. He’s pulling at his shirt, which is white, because of course it is.

Then they look up, and it sinks in as New Yorkers stream around them. Because it’s New York, no one stops.

“Oh,” Steve says. 

Tony wipes a drip of coffee off his own cheek. There’s a bright brown stain pooling over his shirt.

“Well, hi,” he says. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve tries. He gestures uselessly with his coffee. “I - do you - I’m not going to offer to pay for that shirt.”

Tony snorts, then tries to straighten his face out. 

“But I do have a phone,” Steve says, and points an empty coffee cup down the street to his apartment. “And a clean shirt. Unless you want to wear that until you find a clean one.”   


Tony looks down. His shirt is almost see through now. It’s sticking to his left nipple, and Steve determinedly doesn’t stare at it. 

Tony’s jaw shifts from side to side. “What kind of shirt material are you offering? I’ll only take the finest silk.”   


“How about a cotton polyester blend?”   


“I’ll survive,” Tony says flatly. Then, “You really live over there? Right over there? I usually don’t go into people’s places unless I know them or security’s checked them over.”

“You know me,” Steve says.

“Fine,” Tony says, still holding his top half awkwardly, what with the coffee clinging his shirt to his chest. “You better not have a Tony shrine with a lock of my hair you bribed that seedy security guard to steal in ‘89.”

Steve laughs. When Tony doesn’t, he asks, “Please tell me that didn’t really happen.”

“Where did you say your apartment was again?”

Steve sighs. “Follow me.”   


And Tony does.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Steve has never regretted living with Clint more.   


“He’s a good guy,” Steve assures Tony as he pushes last week’s target practice out of the front hall. It’s a giant stuffed teddy bear. It’s pink. Tony pokes at its nose as he passes.

“He can just be kinda… chaotic,” Steve finishes. He wrinkles his nose at a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich which is on the table where the keys should be.

They come to a stop in the kitchen. It’s cramped, like the rest of Steve’s place. At least there are no signs of target practice in here. No, wait.

Steve kicks a knife out of sight. Natasha’s probably been over again. Her and Clint are either a very fun or a very bad combination.

“My room’s upstairs,” he says. “There’s a desk of drawers, you should find a shirt. I have… twelve.”   


“Are you sure you can spare one?”

“I’ll survive,” Steve says, in a bad approximation of Tony from two minutes ago. 

“The phone’s over there,” he continues, pointing near the fridge.

Tony nods. “I might just-”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Don’t let me-”

“No, I wasn’t-”

But Steve’s already shouldered his way back to the front hall. 

“I’ll be here,” he calls. “Please don’t steal my stuff.”

“I’ll restrain myself,” Tony calls back. There’s some familiar metallic clanging. “Is this your crocodile fridge magnet that dances when you high five it?”

“No,” Steve calls. He turns to the half-eaten peanut butter sandwich on the desk near the front door. Clint’s keys are next to it, though that doesn’t mean much. Clint forgets his keys all the time. The sandwich has definitely been here for a few days, Steve has been meaning to tell Clint to clean it up. He should get Bucky over sometime to really make it sink in. Or Steve could turn on the paternal disappointment. Bucky can scare them, Steve can put his hands on his hips and say “I’m not mad, I’m disappointed,” and make them pick up their slack.

Steve picks up the plate, wrestles the giant teddy bear into the corner where it’s the least in the way. He straightens the only picture in the hall, a sinking ship, until he hears Tony hang up the phone.  Then he heads back into the kitchen, which is empty. 

He’s washing Clint’s sandwich plate when Tony comes back down the stairs.

Steve turns. “Did-”

He stops.

Tony is on the second to last step. He’s wearing the shirt Steve got as a gag gift when he was 21. It reads PROTECT YOUR PUSSY. It has a cat underneath it.

“Um,” Steve says. “I.”

“To be honest,” Tony says, “I can’t imagine you wearing this, no matter how much you’ve changed over the years.”

“Bucky gave it to me,” Steve says. “Because he’s terrible.”

Tony’s eyes light up. “ _ The _ Bucky? You’re still friends with James, or do you call all your friends Bucky now?”

“It’s still him,” Steve says. There’s some awkwardness there, but Tony steamrollers right past it.

“Great,” he says. He picks at the hem of the shirt. “Well, he has amazing taste.”   


“I’ve worn it once,” Steve says, “When I had to do laundry. And I wore a jacket over it the whole day.”

Tony looks smug. “I bet you did,” he says.

He comes down the last of the steps, then to a stop in front of Steve. He really is short, which Steve already knew, but now he puts it in relation to him. Tony has to look up at him now. It’s strange.

“A car’s coming to pick me up,” he says. “Thanks for your hospitality.”

And he twangs the crocodile fridge magnet again. It dances.

“That one’s Sharon’s,” Steve says. “She’s also terrible.”

“I bet,” Tony says quietly. “So, is it just you and Clint living here?”   


“Just us.”   


Tony nods. Twangs the crocodile again.

“Cut it out.”   


“Make me,” Tony says absently. Steve remembers Tony getting used to saying stuff like that - teasing that never went anywhere, teasing that meant you cared about somebody. He’d been a sheltered kid. Sometimes Steve would do something that’d be totally normal with any other kid his age, but Tony would just be confused. That summer course was the most time he’d spent with kids his own age since birth.

“Seriously,” Tony says. “Thanks. For letting me use your phone. And your shirt.”

“You can keep it,” Steve says. “Burn it.”

Tony tugs at the hem again.

“We’ll see,” he says. He gives a brief, perfunctory smile that goes warm at the last second. “See you.”   


“I’ll walk you out,” Steve says, and walks him the whole six seconds from the kitchen to the front door.

Tony thanks him again and leaves.

Steve stands there staring at the door. He’d been meaning to get rid of that shirt anyway. He should’ve made Tony take the crocodile fridge magnet, that’s been bothering him for years too. 

As he’s turning away, there’s a knock on the door.

He opens it. “Did you forget something?”

“Yes,” Tony says. He steps inside, closes the door. Then he reaches up, curls a hand around the back of Steve’s neck, and kisses him.

Steve gasps. He’s not proud of it. He just hasn’t been kissed in a long time, he wasn’t expecting it. Also, it’s  _ Tony _ . Steve’s second friend and first embarrassing crush, no matter how far down he wants to squash those feelings. He’d been torn up about him leaving and he’d always felt weird about Tony’s movies, watching them and feeling a connection that could never be anything but one sided. Still, he sometimes imagined them talking, catching up on each other’s lives.

He’d never imagined them kissing. He’d never let himself get that far.

Tony’s mouth is hot and firm, softening when Steve’s lips part. His fingers stay gentle on Steve’s neck the whole way through.

About halfway through the kiss, Steve realizes his hands are dangling at his sides. He brings them up, touches Tony’s hips. Half his fingers skim Tony’s jeans. The other half touch the PUSSY shirt, and the cheap material is enough to jolt Steve back into his body.

Tony is already leaning back. His eyelashes are very dark and thick, something Steve remembers noticing as a kid.

“Sorry,” he says. “Always wanted to do that, back then.”   


“Yeah?” It comes out mortifyingly breathy. Steve clears his throat.

“Not like - it was just a peck, when I imagined it back then.” 

“Oh,” Steve says. “Sorry.”   


“There’s a lot of apologizing going on in this kiss,” Tony says.

Steve swallows. “Are we still kissing?”

Tony stares up at him. His mouth is slack and pink, and Steve’s gaze drags down to it.

This is when the singing starts. 

“Oh no,” Steve says. “Look, I’m really sorry, he’s just-”

Clint, still singing, comes in the door. He almost walks into the two of them, but swerves at the last minute. His cheek is purpling. He’s not wearing a shirt and he’s either drunk or concussed. He’s singing  _ Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. _

“Oh mother dear we’re not the fortunate ones,” he sings. He pauses long enough to point at Steve. “Do we still have a spare key? I lost mine in a barfight.”   


Steve reaches over wordlessly and throws Clint the keys from the table.

Even with whatever’s wrong with his head, Clint catches them effortlessly. “Aw, keys! Thanks, man. AND GIRLS! JUST WANNA-”

He disappears into the kitchen. 

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital,” Steve yells.

“I’m fine,” Clint yells back.   


Steve turns back to Tony, who is standing against the target teddy bear in the corner with his eyebrows raised.

“He seems fun,” he says.

“Yeah, Clint’s a real riot,” Steve says. The awkwardness is back. “So, uh. I. Uh.”

Tony slaps his shoulder with the back of his hand.

“Good to see you,” he says. “Thanks for helping me fulfill a childhood wish.”   


Steve laughs. Or, he gets as close as he can to it.

“You’re - welcome?”

“Bye,” Tony says.

“Right,” Steve says. “Bye.”   


Tony slips out the door, barely opening it enough to get out. 

Steve stands there for a second. Then he turns around. Clint is leaning in the kitchen doorway.

“Something is seriously wrong with this yoghurt,” he says.

Steve checks he bowl Clint’s holding. “That’s mayonnaise.”   


“Ah,” Clint says. He takes another spoonful. “That’d do it. Hey, was that Tony Stark?”

“No,” Steve says, and leaves him to his mayonnaise. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Two weeks later, this too has faded into It-Might’ve-Been-Imagined. Except Clint speaks up a few times. He didn’t buy Steve’s  _ no, it definitely wasn’t Tony Stark  _ routine. At least Steve has a witness, somebody to prove yes, it really had been Tony.

Not that Steve had told Clint much about it. Or any of his friends, some of whom text him and some of whom actually show up to his apartment to ask why the hell he hadn’t mentioned  _ the  _ Tony Stark coming to visit. Natasha plays it cool, but Steve can tell she’s dangerously close to interrogation.

“He’s an old friend,” is all Steve tells them. “He was just dropping by. I’ll probably never see him again.”

And he believes it. Which is why he’s very surprised when he’s sitting on the roof one day having his secret cigarettes, and Clint mentions that somebody left a message on the answering machine, calling from some fancy hotel.

Steve frowns over the New York City skyline. “Who do we know that would-”

Clint’s giving him an unassuming look that Steve now knows to mean, _ you idiot. _

“Oh,” Steve says. “Oh. Are you sure?”

Clint shrugs. “He didn’t leave a name,” he says, and stretches. “Wait, did he? Maybe he did…”   


Steve glares at Clint, who stretches like a cat, scratches at his stomach under his ratty t-shirt. 

“I don’t know what you’re angling for,” Steve starts, but Clint’s already waving him down.

“He gave a fake name,” he said. “Something to get you into the hotel, they won’t let you in if you come knocking asking for Tony Stark.”   


“When did he-?”

“Couple days ago.”   


When Steve glares this time, Clint winces.   


“I was busy stopping the lady from the second floor from getting evicted! Look, it was the name of some rock star.”

Steve thinks about it. “Brian Johnson?”   


Clint snaps his fingers. “That’s the one!”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When Steve gets to the hotel, there are a lot of people in Tony’s room. A security guard holds up a hand and says, “What magazine are you from?”   


Steve’s mind whites out. What magazines even exist? Has he ever read one?

“Stars and Stripes,” is what comes out of his mouth.

The guy nods. Steve is thankful he put effort into his outfit today, he doesn’t think he’d get in if he wore his usual shirt and jeans. No, today Steve is wearing a button-down and dress pants. The whole outfit came from thrift shops, but still.

Tony is sitting on a nice couch facing a line of people on another nice couch. He looks bored, but he’s hiding it well. He’s smiling, and the smile gets a little brighter when he looks up and notices Steve.

Steve nods. Sits down in the line of people who have a pad of paper and a pen. Steve will just have to go without.

There’s a guy sitting next to Tony wearing an earpiece. He looks both stern and friendly at the same time, which is hard to pull off. He looks - he looks stern right now, but like the kind of guy who’d help move your couch even if you didn’t know him that well.

“Okay,” he says, and points at the woman next to Steve. “You.”

“How do you like your coworkers, Mr. Stark?”   


“My coworkers are great,” Tony says instantly. “We have a mix of longtime actors and people new in the business, so it’s great having that range of experience. Keeps things fresh.”

The woman scribbles. Steve tries to look like he’s recording the words in his head.

The guy points at Steve next. “You.”

_ Shit _ , Steve thinks.

He clears his throat. Meets Tony’s eyes to find that Tony is trying hard not to smile.

“How has it been, staying in New York?”

“It’s been fantastic,” Tony says instantly. “Greatest city in the world. You can’t beat New York.” Then, glancing away for a second: “Can’t beat coming home, either. Hey Happy, can we take a break?”

The guy next to him on the couch drops the stern act for a second, turns to Tony and says, “Sure, boss. You want some water?”

“Love some. Thanks Hap,” Tony says, and stands up. He motions to Steve with his eyes, and Steve gets up and goes into the hall.

Tony joins him a minute later.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “This was supposed to be over hours ago-”   


“It’s fine,” Steve assures him. He checks his watch.

“Do you have something to get to?”

Steve hesitates. “A dinner,” he admits. “But I, I can skip it if-”

“Who with?”

“Just some friends,” Steve says.

Tony shifts his weight from foot to foot. He looks good, but Steve supposes he always has to look good nowadays. Since he stopped partying so much, anyway.

“Can I come?”   


“To dinner?” Steve blinks. “Sure, if you want. You can say hi to Bucky.”   


Tony grins. It’s sharp, a smile Steve’s seen him do in movies where he plays a cocky character, and in real life, from photos of red carpets.

“Can’t wait,” he says. “So, what magazine did you say you were from?”

“Stars and Stripes.”

Tony laughs. Tweaks Steve’s shirt collar, and Steve remembers the warmth of Tony’s mouth, the shock of it.   


“Suits you,” Tony says. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Steve hangs outside the hotel for a while. Just when he’s getting antsy, Tony appears in sunglasses and a hoodie.

“Nice disguise,” Steve tells him.

“It’s flawless,” Tony says. “No, don’t make eye contact with anyone. This might be New York, but fans are still fans and paps are still paps.”   


“Paps?”   


“Paparazzi,” Tony says, still with that same sharp smile. “So, where are we headed?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Tony loosens up on the way over. It helps that no one seems to recognize him on the subway - “See? Flawless,” Tony says, looking relieved - and his shoulders start to ease up, his smile relaxing the further they get from the hotel. 

By the time they get off the subway, he’s closer to the kid Steve remembers, the one he’d gotten glimpses of back in the bookstore. Whatever Tony was now, Steve knew him as a shy, quiet kid who was nervous about letting people see how passionate he was. He’s still that kid, Steve can tell. He’s just covered up the nervousness with sarcasm and coolness rather than quiet.

Not that Steve can judge. He’s still the same kid, too. Hopefully more calm nowadays. Less stubborn, though he doesn’t have much hope about that, going off of what his friends tell him. At least he picks less fights since he hit his early twenties. Physical fights, anyway.

“So who else is going to be here,” Tony asks as they come up on the restaurant, which is closed for the day.

Steve lists them off: “Natasha, the other person who works at the bookstore. Sam, who’s running this place. Sharon, our college friend. Clint, who appeared in our lives one day and refused to leave, we found him in a dumpster - and Bucky.”

“Sounds like a good gang,” Tony says. 

“They are,” Steve says. “I think you’ll like them.”   


And of course Sam ruins it by opening the restaurant door and immediately staring at Tony. “Oh  _ shit _ . Clint was being serious.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve says. “Hey Sam, wanna stop staring at your guest?”

Sam’s jaw snaps shut. He nods hard.

“Right,” he says. “Sorry, uh. Mr. Stark. I loved your space movie.”

Then he darts back inside, probably to tell everyone that 1) Steve actually brought somebody else for once and 2) it’s a real life movie star.

“Sorry,” Steve says. “I thought-”

“It’s fine,” Tony says. Some of the sharpness is back. “I get this all the time. This is a nice place!”   
Steve looks around. It’s Sam’s last-ditch business adventure, and so far is hasn’t been going great no matter how many weekends Steve and his friends spend here buying all the food they could afford.

They head inside. When they round the corner to see the table everyone’s sitting at, everyone’s already staring. Sharon is arguing with Sam, but she quickly shuts up when Steve and Tony emerge from the hall.

They stand there for a second to let them all adjust.

Tony waves.

The others wave back, some with more enthusiasm than others, who are still recovering from shock.

“Hey, Tony,” Bucky calls. “Sorry I never gave you back your jacket.”

“I can’t remember what you’re talking about, so it’s fine,” Tony replies.    


The others keep staring.

“Guys,” Steve says. “This is New York. We saw the Home Alone kid last year.”

“Yeah, for five seconds on the subway,” Sam says. He gestures at Tony. “Not a whole dinner with him  _ right there _ .”

“He’s just a guy,” Steve says.

Tony says, “Who, the Home Alone kid or me?”

“Both of you,” Steve says. “Both of you are just guys.”   


“Hurtful,” Tony mutters.

Steve looks at his exaggerated hurt face and snorts. 

“Hard to be that starstruck over you after I saw you cry over how cool the stars are.”   


“Aw,” Sam says.

Tony squirms. It’s a Tony squirm, so it’s just a quick flurry of fidgeting. His mouth twitches, he scratches at his nose, he pulls his elbows in and then back out.

“I specifically remember telling you never to bring that up,” he says.   


“Sorry.”   


“You’re forgiven,” Tony says, and they go sit at the table.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It takes some well-placed kicks under the table, but everyone behaves. They’re all adults, and this is  _ New York, goddamnit, _ and it’s not like this is a total surprise, they all know that Steve knew Tony as kids and that he visited the bookstore a while back.

Still, that doesn’t mean they don’t revel in it a bit.

“So, Tony,” Sam says. “Is it true you turned down the role of the bartender guy in Cheers?”

“That casting call was before my acting career started getting big,” Tony says. “But I wish.”

Natasha says, “You two were friends at school?”

“Summer school,” Steve says. “For one summer. But we stayed in touch until Tony moved away to boarding school.”

He has another mouthful of duck. It’s an experimental one, according to Sam. It tastes fine to Steve, if a little sweet. There’s also potato and green beans, which taste normal.

“What about you guys,” Tony says. “Steve mentioned Sharon is a college friend?”

“And Sam,” Sharon says. “We both went to NYU with Steve. Bucky met Natasha at a roller derby, he introduced her to all of us, and she introduced us to Clint. He was in a dumpster at the time.”   


Tony pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “Huh. I thought Steve was making a joke.”   


“Nope,” Steve says. “Face-down in a dumpster after he helped someone carry his couch down the fire escape. He fell three stories.”   


Clint adds, “And not one scratch.” 

“He was deeply injured,” Steve tells Tony, at the same time Natasha says, “We had to carry him to the ambulance.”

Tony starts pushing beans onto his fork. “I hope the couch guy was grateful.”

“Not really,” Bucky says. “We had to keep that couch out on the fire escape overnight because no one could move it, we were too busy dealing with Clint’s broken bones. It got rained on. We had to trash it.”

“So they pushed it into the dumpster the same place I fell off,” Clint says. 

“And we all had to take turns feeding Clint for the next six weeks,” Sharon finished.

Tony laughed. “That’s - nice of all of you. What’d you do, draw straws?”

Everyone made a noise that loosely translated to  _ no _ , since they all had full mouths.

“When we could,” Steve says. “It was pretty much just - whoever wasn’t working at the time. And had the emotional strength to help Clint wipe his ass.”   


Clint sighs. “I told you guys, I’ll repay the favor one day!”   


“Please don’t,” Natasha tells him.

This spurs an anecdote about Steve getting in a bar fight, his one and only bar fight, because he had stopped fighting so much in his late teens, but he didn’t stop entirely. A guy had been picking on this girl, and Steve had stepped in. Since he got big that was usually all it took, but this guy had been drunk enough to be confident in taking Steve in a fight.

“The guy lost,” Tony says expectantly.   


“Probably would’ve,” Bucky says. “If Steve hadn’t tripped on a bottle and knocked himself out.”

Tony laughs, looking over at Steve, who holds up his hands.

“We haven’t had many injuries since any of us turned 25,” he says. “Except for that one time last year when Sam cut the tip of his finger off and we had to close down the kitchen.”

“Already so understaffed,” Sam muttered into his glass of weird foreign beer that Steve refused to drink.

“And did you nurse him back to health, too?”   


“If by nurse you mean physically hold him back from going into the kitchen,” Sharon says. “He listened to the doctor like, sure, no getting it wet or dirty, and then tried to walk right back into-”

“It’s my baby,” Sam says. “This place is my  _ baby- _ ”

“And it was going to infect your finger and make it fall off,” Sharon tells him.

The table fell into old, worn arguments, Steve laughing the whole way through. He keeps glancing over at Tony, who interjects sometimes, but mostly when Steve looks over Tony’s looking at the group of them like he’s watching a feelgood movie.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“You guys are a good group,” Tony says when they leave the restaurant hours later.

“We do okay,” Steve says. “What about you, do you have people?”   


Tony smiles proudly. “I do! It’s taken a while and a lot of, uh. Weeding the people out who want me for my money, but I’ve built myself a solid group.”

“That’s great,” Steve says.

Tony nods. 

“Hey,” he says. “Want to come back to my hotel?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They go back to the hotel. It’s just as bewilderingly fancy as it was in the daytime, and Steve hopes it doesn’t show on his face how out of depth he feels. In the hotel, sure, but also with Tony touching the inside of his arm.

It gives him a complicated mix of emotions. First off, there are the nerves that always come when Steve sees the possibility of Sex and/or Romance With A New Person on the horizon. Also, it’s been a while. Sex and romance both. And it’s  _ Tony _ , which makes things complicated because Steve is getting to know Tony again after fifteen years, and also because he’s only known Tony as a far off celebrity for those fifteen years.

But then they get to Tony’s room, and it turns out Steve doesn’t have to worry about any of that.

Tony walks right into his hotel room, looking entirely at home in these rich surroundings. Steve closes the door behind them, looks around at the white and gold room, drawers and the ornaments and the sheets, all of which probably cost more than Steve’s monthly rent.

Steve says, “Well,” and then regrets it, because it sounds expectant. “Sorry, uh-”

“What’re you sorry for,” Tony says. His eyes are dark in the way they used to get sometimes if the light hit them right. He’s standing very close all of a sudden, and his eyelashes are long, and Steve still drew them sometimes after Tony left. He’d pause the VCR and sketch out his face, maybe once every couple of years. Tony always was a good subject.

“I don’t know,” Steve admits.    


_ How is this my life _ , he thinks to himself. The white and gold room. The beautiful light fixtures. The desk he doesn’t want to get close to, lest he break the ornament on it. And Tony, oh god, Tony, here again, right in front of him.

_ I missed you,  _ Steve doesn’t say. _ I really did. _

He leans in.

The bathroom door opens.

“Hey,” says a tall blonde guy who Steve distrusts on sight. “You’re back already?”   


Tony had jumped backwards as soon as the door began to creak. He blinks rapidly.

“Tones,” the guy prompts.

“Uh,” Tony says. “Hi, Ty. Yeah, I’m back. You’re… here.”

Ty grins. It’s smarmy. Steve hates it.

“I am,” he says. “Your producer said I should make an appearance. We should do something tonight, give the mags something to gossip over. Could be good publicity.”

He puts an arm around Tony’s waist, leans in for a kiss. Tony turns his head at the last moment so it hits his chin. 

Ty doesn’t seem to care. He squeezes Tony’s waist and then releases.

“Right,” Tony says. He tries to meet Steve’s gaze, but Steve is too busy staring at the wall. “Sure.”

“Great,” Ty says. He takes a plate from the bedside table, walks over to Steve and holds it out expectantly. Doesn’t say anything. His eyebrows start pulling inwards when Steve just stands there, staring. It’s clicked, but it still takes Steve a second for Steve to roll with the humiliation.

He holds out his hands. Ty drops the plate into it.

“And bring up some whiskey, would you,” he says, not looking back at Steve as he heads back for the bathroom. “With those big circle ice cubes, none of that cube shit.”

“Circle ice cubes,” Steve says flatly. “Got it. Anything else?”   


Tony is still trying to meet his gaze. Steve doesn’t let him.

“Nah,” Ty says, and disappears into the bathroom.

Steve’s fingers clench and unclench on the plate. It’s a half-finished sandwich. Peanut butter. There’s fancy peanut butter in the world, and Steve’s never tried it except for one time at Tony’s house, age 12. Tony’s butler served them peanut butter sandwiches on delicately patterned plates. Steve hadn’t known peanut butter could taste that good, and he’s never had it again.

“Steve,” Tony says, voice low. Almost pleading.

Steve finally looks at him. Pulls up a polite smile.

“I have to head out,” he says. “Those circle ice cubes won’t wait.”

“Steve,” Tony tries.

“Don’t come by the store,” Steve tells him, and leaves.

Tony doesn’t say his name again. Steve tries to tell himself he’s glad. 

When he gets out onto the street, he stares out into the city he’s lived in his whole life and feels like the world’s biggest idiot.

A bus goes by with Tony’s face on it. It’s advertising his upcoming movie, the one he’s shooting right now. It’s a period drama, and it has a blown-up version of Tony’s face. He has muttonchops. 

The bus stops right in front of Steve. Muttonchop-Tony stares out at him.

“Alright,” Steve says. “Great.”

He goes home.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It takes a while for him to even tell Bucky why he refuses to talk about Tony after that night, and that Tony won’t be seeing them again. When he finally caves to Bucky, the guy sits there for a few seconds with his hands on his knees.

“Well,” Bucky says finally. “Shit. That sucks, Steve.”

“Thank you,” Steve says. “For your infinite wisdom.”   
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Summer passes. Then autumn. By the time the snow comes Steve still doesn’t want to talk about it, thank you very much.

Life has returned to normal by then. Steve is bundled in winter clothes - four layers of shirts and sweaters, since he can’t afford a decent coat - and he tries to keep the heat inside the bookstore, quietly resenting anyone who keeps the door open long enough to dart in. He goes to Sam’s restaurant on the weekends with the rest of his friends. He stays out of Clint’s business except when Clint is really in over his head, which is half the time.

Tony’s visits seem like a dream. Another life, as far away as the first time they became friends.  _ Do you know where Classroom Eight is?  _ Steve can’t believe he still remembers, either. It had just stuck in his mind, it had taken root. Some part of him would always be watching this kid turn around after Steve asked him if he needed help, just like some part of him would always be frozen in place in his bookstore, about to turn around and see Tony grinning at him after all this time.

And then, of course, Tony shows up at his apartment door.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“You don’t owe me anything,” Tony assures him. He’s shivering. Why is he shivering? Why isn’t he wearing more than two thin layers? He can afford it.

“I just need somewhere to hide out,” Tony continues. 

It’s still snowing outside. Just a little, not enough for it to set on the ground. It dissolves on the concrete. Still, it’s  _ snow _ . It’s  _ cold _ . And keeping the door open is letting that cold into Steve’s barely lukewarm apartment, where he only turns on the heating for a few hours every day.

Tony shivers some more. He’s had some photographs published in the paper. Somebody got ahold of pictures of him performing, uh, lewd acts on a man in a public bathroom.

“The photos are from ages ago,” he continues. “I thought they’d been taken care of, I-”

“Get in here,” Steve tells him, and holds the door open.

Tony stares.

“It’s  _ freezing _ ,” Steve says.   


Tony comes in. Steve closes the door gratefully behind him, rubs at his arms. The apartment has lost some important heat from the length of that conversation.

“Why don’t you have a proper coat,” Steve asks.   


Tony glances down at himself, like he’s only just noticed he’s shaking. 

“I didn’t exactly,” he says, and pauses. “I just - left the hotel when my producer started talking about our ‘game plan’ for this run of photos. I didn’t take anything with me. Kind of regretting it now.”

Steve goes into the closet, which is luckily also in the front hall. He hands Tony the only blanket they have left, which is thin and scratchy. 

Tony takes it gratefully, wrapping it around his shoulders.

“It’ll all blow over soon,” He says. “This isn’t my first time around with people taking photos of me mid-fuck. Steve, look - I’m so sorry about last time we saw each other-”

“You don’t have to-”

“No,” Tony says. His jaw is set. No talking him down. “I - Ty is just a publicity thing. We never had any feelings for each other. Or - not now, anyway. Not for a long time. It’s purely professional.”

Steve folds his arms. He only realizes he’s giving the “I’m not angry, just disappointed” look when Tony starts squirming.

“You can stay here,” he says. 

Tony stops squirming and stares at him. “What, seriously?”   


“No, I’m messing with you,” Steve says. “ _ Yes _ , seriously. Go take a bath or something, you need to get warm and we can’t turn up the thermostat.”   


After some more coaxing, Tony goes for the bathroom, still huddled in the blanket. It isn’t cute. It  _ isn’t _ , Steve tells himself, and goes upstairs to read a book.   
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Half an hour later, Clint appears in his bedroom doorway.

“Tony Stark is in our bathroom,” he says.

Steve doesn’t close his book. “Yes, Clint.”   


“Taking a bath,” Clint continues. 

“Yes, Clint.” Steve waits. When Clint doesn’t say anything, he sighs and lowers the book. “Anything else, Clint?”

Clint shrugs. He’s wearing three scarves. 

“Just wanted to check he didn’t break in,” he says. “So what’s going on?”

“Some asshole released some unflattering pictures of him,” Steve says. “He’s hiding out here until it blows over.”

“Right,” Clint says. “Great. Okay.”

“ Something to say?”   


Clint raises his eyebrows. “Who, me? Nothing. I gotta go.”   


Steve watches him leave and resigns himself to getting a lot of calls tonight.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I like your place,” Tony says when he gets out of the bath. He comes up to Steve’s room dressed in the clothes Steve had left for him, and Steve’s shirt is, again, hilariously baggy. 

“Homey,” Tony continues.

Steve hides a smile. Does Tony remember saying that when they were kids? Probably not.

“What’s your place like,” he asks.

Tony shrugs, sits down on Steve’s bed. Steve is sitting in an armchair beside it.

“Big,” he says. He re-adjusts the blanket around his shoulders, pulling it tight.

“I bet,” Steve says. Then, because he’s never going to get another chance and he’s been meaning to: “Hey, I’m - I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, about your parents. I tried to call you, but you’d-”

“Changed my number,” Tony says. “Yeah.”   


He smiles. He has the beginning of wrinkles around his eyes now. Steve might have, too. He doesn’t look in the mirror very much.

“It’s fine,” Tony says. 

Steve nods. Tries not to remember the photos of Tony he’d seen in the papers -  _ TEEN MOVIE STAR LOSES PARENTS IN FREAK ACCIDENT _ . Tony had looked very small, framed by that big house behind him. 

“I thought about calling you,” Tony says. “When I heard about Sarah.”   


“You heard about Mom?”

Tony clears his throat. “Yeah, I kept - I kept updated. On what you were doing. Not in a weird way,” he clarifies when Steve raises his eyebrows. “Just - if you needed help, you know.”   


Steve opens his mouth. Then he closes it. 

“We got an anonymous donation,” he says. “When she got her diagnosis. Did you…”

Tony fidgets. 

“Tony.”

“ _ Technically _ I didn’t do anything,” Tony says. “I just pulled some strings so someone would pool money into the cancer ward.”

Steve stares at him. Tony’s hair is wet. It drips down onto his cheek. Tony wipes it off.

“It’s not a big deal,” Tony tries.

“Yeah,” Steve says, incredulous. “Not a big deal that you gave us hundreds of thousands of dollars to give Mom the best care she could get.”

Tony shrugs again. “Didn’t help much. In the end.”   


“But she was comfortable,” Steve says, and his throat threatens to close up. Embarrassing. It’s been ten years since she died. “She was - it was bad, but still as good as it could get. There wasn’t any pain, at the end.”

Tony nods. He doesn’t look content at that, but his face smoothes out a little.

Steve shifts in his armchair. They’d found it out on the street. After they treated it for bugs, it’s been a pretty good find. Comfy, if you sit where the exposed spring can’t get you.

“Tony,” he says. “What’s your life like now?”

Tony looks at him like it’s a funny question. But in that controlled way he has. It used to be more blank when they were kids, now it’s more… flashy. Instead of blankness, an emptiness in place of something, there’s a mask in front of it. Like a magician redirecting the audience’s attention.  _ Don’t look at my hands, look at this rabbit. Keep your eyes on whatever’s moving, instead of the thing that matters. _

“It’s great,” Tony says. “I have a good career. I’m famous, and it’s not because my Dad was rich. It’s because I’m good. At least until my face wears out.”   
Steve frowns. Tony’s tongue moves against the inside of his cheek and Steve watches it.

“I have friends,” Tony says, voice low. “Real ones. You’d like them. There’s this guy Rhodey, I met him right after I moved. And Pepper, she was my PA on a set once. And Happy, my security guard. We have - we’re a lot like your friend group, I think. My people.”

“That’s good,” Steve says. He’d been worried about Tony in the movie industry at first, thought that people might take advantage of Tony’s big heart, but the more he’d read Tony’s interviews and watched him on red carpets he’d gotten assured that Tony could take care of himself. Mostly. He doubts that Tony always puts his trust in the right people, what with some of the stuff he’s heard over the years. What with Ty, and these photos that have come out.

“I’m glad you have people,” Steve says.

Tony hums. He’s sitting very stiff on Steve’s bed, like he’s not entirely sure he’s welcome.

“I always,” he says, and pauses. His face is carefully blank now, but there’s something moving underneath it. “Don’t quote me on this, okay? But I always felt like we - had a connection. You and me. Even though we were only friends for a couple years when we were kids. I’d check in on you and I’d think, yeah, there’s my - there’s Steve _.  _ As if we still caught up sometimes.”   


“Me too,” Steve says softly.   


Tony looks up. There’s a ghost of surprise on his face, a glimpse of that open surprise that had been there when Steve turned around in the bookshop.  _ You remember? Of course. _

“It was easier for me,” Steve says. “With the - interviews, and all of it. Or maybe that made it harder. It wasn’t… you, when you were on camera. Even when you weren’t playing a character, you weren’t yourself.”   


Tony’s shoulders roll back.

“I don’t know about that,” he says, but he sounds like he’s bluffing. “It has been a while. I grew up.”   


“Yeah, but…” Steve considers. “Okay, so some of it’s you. But - you’re still that polite, shy kid who turned into this - this intense smart alec when you got to know him.”   


“Polite and shy are literally the last words anyone would use to describe me.”

Steve shrugs. “Not a lot of people know you.”

Tony is silent for a second.

“No,” he says finally. “No, they don’t.”

And with that he gets up, crosses the room and climbs into Steve’s lap. He doesn’t drop eye contact with Steve throughout all of this, right up until he settles against Steve’s legs, angles his arms around Steve’s head so they’re propped up on the arm chair.

He swallows. Steve watches his throat. Says, “If you’re just doing this ‘cause-”

“I want to,” Tony says, quiet but firm. His expression is determined, but also slightly slack, the kind of slack it had been just after he’d kissed Steve, before Clint came in.

He continues, “Do you?”

Steve hesitates. Tony’s mouth is very pink, and his skin is very warm.

“Can we talk some more first?”

Tony laughs, surprised, in the back of his throat. It’s not a mean laugh.   


“Okay,” he says, and squints. “Should I get out of your lap?”

Steve shakes his head.

Tony laughs again. He relaxes against Steve.

“You got it,” he says. “So, how was high school?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They talk into the night. Then they stop talking.

When they fall asleep it’s 2am, after they’ve made love. Tony laughs again when Steve calls it  _ making love _ , as they’re trying to keep their eyes open after the act.

“I can’t believe you still call it that,” he says.

Steve frowns. “Did we ever talk about sex?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. He has his head pillowed on his arms as he looks at him. “Remember? You called it making love, and I didn’t know what you were talking about.”

“Right,” Steve says. “Yeah, and I explained it’s how babies got made, and you said  _ you mean fucking? _ and you said it in the world’s smallest voice and got nervous for the rest of the day in case an adult overheard.”

“God,” Tony says, rolling over onto his back. “I can’t believe I was ever that kid.”   


“I can,” Steve says. He reaches over to hold Tony’s hand.

Tony makes a face like he’s making fun of himself, but then he links their fingers together and the look gives way to fondness. 

They fall asleep holding hands. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When Steve wakes up, it’s to Tony shifting in the bed beside him.

He’s the warmest he’s been in weeks, so he doesn’t move. He opens his eyes to see Tony pulling on a dressing gown and heading for the door.

“Hey,” he mumbles.

Tony turns back, smiling. “Hey. You used to be better at mornings.”

“That was before I started drinking coffee,” Steve says into his pillow. “Come back to bed?”   


Tony’s smile goes soft. “I’m going to put on some coffee and get the newspaper. Try and survive until then.”   


“No promises,” Steve says. He watches Tony leave, then rolls onto his side to check the window. It’s not snowing anymore, but there’s a tint of frost around the edges of the glass.

He stretches. Pushes himself up out of bed, goes to get his pants from where they’d been thrown over the armchair.

He’s just reached them when he looks out the window and stops. 

“Oh,” he says. “ _ Shit _ .”

He bolts for the door. Stops long enough to yank some pants on, then continues bolting. He makes it down the stairs and is almost at the front hall when he hears the door opening.

“Tony,” he yells.

Then the door is open, and dozens more yells start streaming in.

Steve skids to a stop, bare footed and chested in the cold. Right in front of him, Tony’s hand is clenched around the doorknob as paparazzi shove cameras at him and shout things like, WHAT IS THE NATURE OF YOUR RELATIONSHIP TO THE MAN IN THE PHOTO and ARE YOU CONCERNED ABOUT AIDS!

Steve reaches past Tony for the door, but Tony already has it handled.

He steps back, yanking the door shut.

“Who the hell did you tip off,” he says flatly, turning to Steve. 

Steve shakes his head, still seeing sunspots from all the flashing lights. “I didn’t tell anyone. Tony, I-”

“Save it,” Tony says, jaw tight, eyes shiny. “I can’t believe-”

He stops, smiles grimly to himself, doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes. And then he does, and he’s 100% the cool, flashy guy from the movies except for the locked jaw.

“I’ll be going now,” he says.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Steve can’t stop him. He stops trying by the time Tony heads back down the hall after getting his clothes, which have dried on the bathroom rack.

“Do me a favour,” he tells Steve as he’s about to head out the door. “When you sell the story of last night, leave out the bit when I said we had a connection. It’s from a movie script I’m going to star in,  and I’d hate to get sued.”   


With that, he opens the door and heads into the blur of lights. Steve watches him go, then realizes he’s still shirtless and barefoot and freezing and also people are taking pictures of him.

He’s about to slam the door when a familiar face emerges from the crowd, waving.

Clint hurries in. Steve closes the door behind him.

“I’m so sorry,” Clint says, and he even sounds serious, which is how Steve knows it’s bad. “Shit, Steve, I was drunk, I was talking to Nat-”

“Clint-”

“I didn’t think anyone could hear me-”

“Clint,” Steve says. The paparazzi are still yelling outside. “Stop.”

Clint shuts up. His eyes are wide.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again.

“I know,” Steve says. “It’s - it’s fine. It was never-”

He can’t say it. It’s too obvious, too stupidly obvious, and Steve has never felt more like an idiot in his life. Of course. Of  _ course _ . He should have - well, not turned Tony away at the door, but he should have shut Tony down when he tried to take it further. He should’ve turned it into polite small chat and sent Tony on his way when it was safe to leave. 

At the very most he should’ve kept it friendly, said they should be friends, Steve would’ve been okay with that, he would have loved it. He’s missed Tony so much. The connection Tony had mentioned - movie script or not, it had been real for Steve. He’d watched Tony on screen, read something Tony said, and felt such recognition.  _ There you are. There’s my - _

God. What was he thinking? They were friends for a few years as kids. They’ve both changed, they grew the hell up. And Tony’s a goddamn  _ movie star _ . Steve owns a secondhand bookstore in Brooklyn with a bad pun for a name thanks to losing a bet to Bucky.

“It was never going to end well,” Steve says.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Winter gets warmer, blooming into spring. 

People tap Steve on the shoulder as he waits in line at the supermarket, ask if he’s the guy in the photos with Tony Stark. You know, the shirtless guy. And Steve lies and says no, it’s not him. This stops happening as spring goes on, thank god. 

Steve keeps himself busy, works out at the gym he’d gotten with the discounted membership Sam got him for Christmas, one that Steve gets every year from a rotating cycle of friends. He goes to Sam’s restaurant and eats meals he’s had a dozen times before. He goes into the bookstore most days and he reads a lot, since it comes with the territory. 

He doesn’t watch many movies. Nobody brings this up with him, and Steve is grateful.

Tony’s face still shows up on buses, and Steve does his best not to notice. 

“It was never going to end well,” Bucky reminds him on the rare occasion his friends bring it up. 

“You come from entirely different worlds,” Natasha will say.

“And he’s not that good of an actor anyway,” Sam will add.   


“Exactly,” Steve will say, and he reminds himself of all of this whenever his thoughts drift Tony-wards. Some are more believable than others. 

_ It’s over _ , he tells himself. He repeats it until it sinks in, really and truly. _ It was stupid, you never should’ve hoped for it, and now it’s over. I hope you learned your lesson. _

If he ever sees Tony again, which he doubts, Steve has a plan. He’ll be polite. He’ll be calm. He’ll wish Tony all the best, but he won’t take anything Tony has to offer, whether it’s friendship or anything more. He has it all figured out.

And then he sees Tony again.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s been five months, or close to it. Summer has set in and Steve hasn’t needed a jacket in weeks.

He’s re-shelving books, thinking about arranging a new display in the window to draw in customers who have been wanting more airport fiction, when the bell chimes over the door.

“One second,” he calls. He puts the book he’s holding down on the tray he’s lugging around the shop and starts to head out of the stacks.

“Take your time,” says a familiar voice.

Steve stops, just about to step out of the stacks where the rest of the bookshop is laid out around him. He takes a second to breathe - long one in, long one out - and then steps out into the open.

Tony looks good, because of course he does. He’s in a suit and sunglasses even though it’s not that sunny outside. He has a red handkerchief in his suit pocket. Those pockets have a name, Steve remembers. Tony told him once. What was it?

Tony smiles. It looks deeply calm, if you buy into that sort of thing. Steve doesn’t.

“Hi,” he says. 

_ Pocket square _ , Steve thinks. 

“Hello,” he replies, trying for both polite and guarded. “Can I help you with anything?”

Tony’s smile stays in place. “How have you been, Steve?”

“Fine.”   


“Great,” Tony says, smiling even wider. “That’s great.”

They stand in silence. The bookshop has never seemed smaller. Steve is starting to sweat. Why didn’t he put in air conditioning like Natasha suggested? They could afford it if they took out a loan.

“I’m leaving today,” Tony says. “Back to Malibu. I’m heading to a press conference at the Barber Hotel and then I’m getting on a plane.”   


“Alright,” Steve says.

“I wanted to apologize,” Tony says. “I - I really did think-”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Tony nods. Pockets his hands, looks around the store.

“Is there anything else?”   


Tony hesitates. He’s wearing cologne. Steve can smell it from here. It’s nice - woody, like campfires. They’d gone camping once. They both had to be shown how to pitch a tent, and they’d almost burned it down making smores right outside.

“I wanted,” he says, and pauses again. Rubs at his mouth. Looks up at Steve again, gives that calm, definitely fake smile.

Steve can’t do this.

“Tony,” he says, and Tony’s mouth instantly snaps closed. “Look, I - thank you for coming by. I appreciate the apology. But I can’t - I can’t do this. Okay?”

Tony blinks. 

“If we,” Steve says, and then loses track, has to start again. He’s never had to do this before. “And I was - left aside again, I don’t think I’d recover. Not again. And there are too many movies of you, too many buses with your photo all over them. You’d go and I’d be-”

He swallows. Tony’s eyes don’t leave his face.

“I just can’t,” Steve says. 

“Right,” Tony says slowly. The smile had faded during Steve’s speech, but now it was back in full force, straining his cheeks. “That’s - good. Okay, good choice.”

He looks down again. Then, like the words are hard to get out: “The thing I said, about us having a connection even though we didn’t talk for fifteen years - that wasn’t from a movie. That was me.”

Steve doesn’t know what to do with that, so he does nothing. He doesn’t even nod.

“It’s not real,” Tony says, still smiling, jaw twitching with effort. “The fame. It’s - I’m just a guy. Standing in front of another guy. Asking - asking him to love him.”

It’s very quiet. Steve breathes in the cologne, thinks of firewood, two boys arguing over the best way to make smores though neither of them had made them before. Tony’s eyes in the firelight. Tony’s eyes a few months ago, staring into Steve’s as he lay on top of him.

The quiet stays. Steve swallows again, and Tony mirrors him.

“Okay,” he says. His voice is thick, eyes shiny, and Steve averts his gaze.

“Bye,” Tony continues. 

Steve nods. There’s a moment where he thinks Tony is going to step forwards, shake his hand or kiss his cheek, but then the moment’s over and Tony’s turning, walking out of the shop.

The bell chimes. The door closes. Steve looks up in time to see Tony’s brown coat as he vanishes into the crowd on the street.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When Steve goes to Sam’s restaurant that night, he finally brings up Tony.

“He came by the store,” he says.

Everyone immediately hones in. Steve hasn’t told them details, but they all know what’s happened. If he didn’t tell them directly, they all told each other about it, and they absolutely talked about it when he wasn’t around.

“What did he say,” Natasha says, examining her nails, and it’s only years of knowing her that lets Steve know how rabidly interested she is. 

Steve sighs. Then he tells them.

When he looks up from the table, it’s silent. Natasha is staring into the distance. Bucky has his head in his hands. Sam’s massaging his temple.

“It was the right choice, right,” Steve says. When no one replies, he says: “Guys?”   


“Yeah,” comes the immediate response, some more enthused than others.

“Definitely,” Bucky says, sounding unconvinced. “Yeah, ‘cause -”

“Movie star,” Sam supplies. “It’d never work.”   


“Mmmm,” Bucky says.

Steve stares at them until the door slams open. 

“Sorry I’m late, I-” Clint stops. “What happened?”

Natasha nods at Steve. “Tony Stark came by the shop and confessed his undying love-”

“He did  _ not _ ,” Steve says, but Natasha talks over him.

“-and Steve turned him down.”   


Clint stares at him. There’s more bruising by his hairline, and Steve makes an absent note to check him over later.

“You dumbass,” Clint says.

“No,” Bucky says, muffled by his own hands. “It’s sensible.”

“ _ Dumbass _ ,” Clint says, drawing it out. He stalks forwards like he’s about to get in Steve’s face, then he stops a safe distance away, probably because of the look Steve gives him.

Sharon shrugs. “Can’t have been that good of a speech.”   


“What?”

“The speech,” Sharon says. “The undying love speech. It can’t have been that good if you turned him down.”   


“It wasn’t an undying love speech,” Steve tells her. “And it - okay, some of it was good. Sweet. At the end he said, uh. That he was famous, but even with all that he was just a guy. Standing in front of another guy. Asking him to love him.”   


This is met with the most pointed silence Steve has ever heard. It rings in his ears, through the whole restaurant, all the chairs turned up on the tables.

Steve checks. Everybody is looking down, or elsewhere, like they’re lost in thought or really, really don’t want to say what they’re thinking.

Steve takes a deep breath. Braces his hands on the table. “I’ve made the wrong choice.”   


“No  _ shit _ ,” Clint says, as a few of his friends make noises to the same effect.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


None of them own a car. 

It’s the tensest taxi ride they’ve ever taken, three of them shoved in the backseat and others in another taxi, and Steve sits with his arms crossed tight over his chest the whole time.

“Come on,” Clint says through gritted teeth. “Come onnnn.”   


“It’s city traffic,” Steve says. “It’ll go as fast as it goes.”

“How are you this calm!”

“I am,” Steve says, “The opposite of calm.”   


He gets out and runs the last two blocks. It gets him there in half the time the taxi would’ve.

“Pass,” says the security guard at the front door of the hotel where they’re holding the press conference. 

“What?”   


“I need to see your pass.”

Steve stares at him, thinking. If there was just one guard he might just duck past, but there are definitely others that will come if this guy yells.

“We’re here to assess your disability services,” Natasha says. 

The guard looks over them disdainfully. “Are you now?”   


“Yes,” Clint says. He pulls off his hearing aid, brandishing it in the guy’s face. “We are. Now let us in, we’re late.”

The guard eyes the four of them - Steve, Natasha, Clint and Bucky, with Sam and Sharon probably stuck in traffic a few blocks away.

“Our boss will kill us if we don’t get in,” Clint tries. “He’ll run us over with his wheelchair-”

Another guard comes up. He’s familiar, and Steve doesn’t know why until it clicks.

“Something the matter,” asks Happy, the same Happy Tony had talked about months ago, one of Tony’s closest friends.   


“Happy Hogan,” Steve says.

Happy’s face goes shuttered. Okay, he either paid a lot more attention that one time they met, or Happy’s seen the photos in the newspaper. 

“Mr. Rogers. What are you-”

“I need to get in,” Steve says desperately. “Please, I have to talk to Tony before he leaves.”   


Happy’s shoulders twitch. “And say what?”

“I,” Steve says, and his mind goes blank. “That I - I-”

“He realized he made a huge mistake turning Tony down,” Natasha says. “Now will you let us in before we break in?”   


Happy narrows his eyes at that, but he stands back and gives them a nod to come behind the velvet rope.

“They’re with me,” he assures the other guard, who looks dubious but stands back anyway. Happy ushers them all back into a bunch of empty rooms.

“He’s answering questions at the moment,” Happy says, sounding more excited now that they’re heading in. “But I can get you to talk to him after. Do you want-”

But Steve’s already pushing his way through the next door and into a huge room stacked with professional lights and reporters and a tiny stage. Steve nudges into the audience, where reporters are standing and asking questions. Up on stage is Tony, sitting at a desk with microphones fixed to it. He looks picture perfect, if a little tired. He hasn’t seen Steve yet.

“Woman in the red,” Tony says.

A woman in the front in a red dress puts her hand down and asks, “Mr. Stark, how long are you planning to stay in New York once the movie wraps?”

“No time at all, sorry,” Tony says. “I’m heading back to Malibu and taking a break from acting.”   


“A break?”

“Yes,” Tony says, and points. “Guy in the blue.”   


“Is this time off related to the photos that came out during the filming-”

“No they are not,” Tony says, smiling blandly. “Yes, you.”   


The woman in front of Steve lowers her hand, says, “The last time you were here, there were some photos taken of you and an American man by the name of Steve Rogers. Do you care to comment on that?”

Tony doesn’t answer. His eyes lock with Steve’s, whose heart rises into his throat. 

“Mr. Stark?”   


“What?” Tony clears his throat. “Sorry, what did you say?”   


“Do you care to comment on the photos that arose of you and Steve Rogers?”

“Uh,” Tony says, still staring at Steve. “We’re - we, uh. Good friends.”

Steve raises his hand. 

Tony stares at him. He nods. When nothing happens, he says, “Uh, guy in the - with the - crocodile magnet.”

There’s a murmur of confusion. People look around for something crocodile-themed.

“You’ve said you’re not staying in New York,” Steve says, loud enough that Tony can hear him over the crowd. “Is there anything that can change your mind on that?”

Tony is silent. Pens get clicked. Cameras go off, but lazily, just one or two.

“That depends,” he says.   


Steve’s mind and heart race. “And this man who you were in the photos with - is there any chance the two of you aren’t just good friends?”

Tony isn’t smiling, but there’s the threat of it. Steve feels his own mouth move in response.

“That depends,” Tony says, slower this time.   


“What if,” Steve continues, “that man stood in front of you and asked you to forgive him for being an idiot? For - for almost turning down the best thing in his life?”

The murmurs have started up again. Cameras flash, picking up pace.

Tony rubs at the edge of his mouth, which flickers with a smile he’s trying to keep down. He gestures towards the woman in red.

“Can you ask your question again?”   


The woman wavers, but then snaps back into professionalism. 

“Mr Stark,” she says, “How long are you planning to stay here in New York?”

Tony meets Steve’s eyes again. They look like the rest of Steve’s life.

“Indefinitely,” Tony says.

The room explodes in camera flashes. 

Neither of them pay attention.


End file.
